


It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Torched

by lilian_ariana



Category: Berlin Station (TV)
Genre: Episode: S03E07 The Eye Fears When It Is Done to See, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:17:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18349094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilian_ariana/pseuds/lilian_ariana
Summary: At the end of S03E07, Hector ponders the latest mess he's gotten himself into - including the stupidity of getting involved with this ill-planned rescue attempt in the first place, the distinctly unpleasant prospect of being subjected to a game of flamethrower paintball, and the strangely familiar man in the iron mask.





	It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets Torched

**Author's Note:**

> I just found out yesterday that the show has been cancelled, and while I can't say I'm surprised, I certainly am disappointed. So basically: Here I am, posting fic in defiance!
> 
> This short piece was largely written and about 99% finished during the week following the airing of the episode in question, but then S03E08 happened and... well, y'know. I needed to go write depressing shit to deal with that instead. Now I've finally gotten around to looking this thing over again and declaring it done.
> 
> Also: I don't remember who first coined the term "flamethrower paintball" (someone commenting on something or other in the Berlin Station Twitter feed, I seem to recall), but it cracked me up, so I'm taking the liberty of borrowing it.

_Suffice it to say,_ Hector thinks wryly as Krik's men march him outside at gunpoint,  _that this was not part of the plan._

 

The adrenaline spike that tends to come with being probably about to die an exceedingly unpleasant death hasn't really hit him yet. Maybe because he's had so many guns pointed at him and been close to death so many times, it's all getting a little fucking tedious.  _'Hey, how's your day been?' - 'Oh, you know, guns, goons, megalomaniac oligarch fuckers hunting me with flamethrowers... same old, same old.'_ Though admittedly, the flamethrower part is new. And much as Hector sometimes enjoys playing with fire, he's not even the least bit keen on this particular game.

 

_Shouldn't have gotten involved,_ he thinks, and that concerns both Irina and this ridiculously ill-advised and shoddily improvised rescue mission with Mr Loose Cannon of all fucking people. It's not like he owes Daniel anything, he keeps trying to tell himself. Daniel got himself into this mess, he can get his own fucking self back out of it too. And yet, he just couldn't stay away, just like he couldn't resist following Daniel back to Berlin last year, and look where that got him. But nope, he couldn't just let Steven and fucking Torres blunder into this shitshow all by their lonesome, because that would have been just a perfect fucking recipe for disaster and for some incomprehensible reason, a tiny little part of him decided to give a shit. Lo and behold, here he is getting involved, and guess what? He's about to get himself killed. Again.

 

„ _He deserves a sporting chance“?! Thanks a lot, Torres. Thanks a fucking lot._

 

On the upside, it means he didn't get a bullet to the head just yet, so there's that.

 

 

They're outside now, and yep, there's that adrenaline rush kicking in. Outwardly calm and as seemingly unbothered by the proceedings as he can make himself appear, Hector's survival instinct starts taking stock, cataloguing men, weapons, vehicles, scanning the surrounding terrain, seeking out the fastest path to cover. There's one of him and a couple dozen of them, and he's in unfamiliar territory in the falling darkness, unarmed and on foot to boot. Marvelous. No point in counting on Torres for help, he's got his own skin and his mission to worry about and not much reason to give a damn either way. _„Get to the green dacha“, my ass._

 

The second it became clear where this was going, the stonecold operative in him started plotting survival strategies, with or without Torres's helpful advice. He won't be able to outrun them forever, so there's little fucking point in even trying. Get to cover, get them to split up... and sooner or later, he'll have to take out at least one of them and disarm the fucker to give himself a fighting chance. Simple. And damn near impossible given the disparity in numbers, but who's counting - he'd like to think he's survived worse odds, though he'd be hard pressed to come up with an example. But if Krik and his entourage of psychos think he'll just lay down and die, they'll be sorely disappointed. He hasn't kept his head attached for this long to have it barbecued with a fucking flamethrower.

 

Movement behind him, shuffling steps. _What the hell...?_ Turns out there's another poor bastard to join the festivities. Part of Hector idly wonders what this guy in the honest-to-fucking-God iron mask – that sick fucker Krik sure has a flair for the theatrical – has done to run afoul of his erstwhile host while looking him over as he's dragged closer and pushed to his knees. Face obscured, clothes ripped and dirty... but there's something about this guy that tugs at Hector's instincts. The mask is still on when recognition sets in, dimly creeping in at first and then hitting him head-on. It's the eyes. He knows those fucking eyes, only saw them for a moment before the other man's gaze dropped to the ground but that's enough.

 

_Son of a bitch._

 

The calmly calculating part of him takes in the information presented and adjusts Hector's odds of survival upwards, factoring in the advantages of running the gauntlet with a partner instead of on his own, rapidly setting to work on incorporating Daniel's presence in his nascent plans for the immediate future. From elsewhere, somewhere deep down, emotion wells up, though he does his best to dampen it.  _Relief_ on the one hand, because here's actual proof that Daniel is here, battered and bruised but still alive, right where they hoped to find him, and a good deal of  _dread_ on the other, because the chances of him staying that way are somewhat less than promising, and part of that is down to his own bungling of the situation.

 

Daniel stares up at him as the mask comes off, as he pushes himself up on his feet. They look at each other impassively, letting noone else see the connection except perhaps Torres who'd know to expect it. Without exchanging a word or even a nod, they hold each other's gaze for a fraction of a second that feels like a lifetime, and an often tested, badly frayed yet never broken bond snaps firmly back into place.

 

_Brothers._

 

And then they run.

 

 


End file.
